


Life is a Series of Compromises.

by Waxwing



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 23:14:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4156608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waxwing/pseuds/Waxwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically just the early days of Wez and Golden Youth's relationship.<br/>For those who don't know, Wez and Golden Youth are <a href="http://vignette3.wikia.nocookie.net/roadwarrior/images/e/ec/The_golden_youth_and_wez.png/revision/latest?cb=20131129182716">these guys.</a><br/>They're probably the most memorable thing about the second Mad Max movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life is a Series of Compromises.

At night he’s kept in a box, he’s also generally kept in this box when they move from place to place to keep him from getting damaged or running away but they travel mostly by night so that’s neither here nor there he supposes. In the morning he’s taken out and groomed and fed and then chained to a post in the tent where he spends the entire day and the early evening...and then he’s put back in the box. It’s been like this for that past three months, since his former master sold him to a band of traveling merchants. He sometimes wonders what sort of price he fetched but, even if they would tell him, he’s physically incapable of asking. He doesn’t remember having ever been able to speak by he does have faint memories of a woman teaching him how to write, he thinks she may have been his mother. 

When he’s chained to a post in his little tent during the day he’s not given anything to do. This irks him since his old master, while not being a nice man by any stretch of the imagination, had at least given him little chores to occupy the time when he wasn’t using his body. Of course he was beaten savagely if he ever got any of them even the slightest bit wrong but by now having his teeth rattled occasionally is as much a part of life as breathing or sleeping. It occurs to him that his lack of responsiveness to physical abuse may have been the reason his old master got tired of him. He remembers how amusing the man had found it when he used to cry. Now he doesn’t think he has it in him to cry anymore. 

Anyway, the boredom means that he’s actually relieved when clients are brought in to him. His new masters (two men who he thinks are father and son) trade the use of his body for various goods. Some clients only have a little to trade so he only has to pleasure them with his mouth while one of his masters watches but some have a lot to trade and get to be alone with him for an hour or more. These encounters vary, most of the time they’re purely mechanical (he doesn’t enjoy himself but he doesn’t suffer either), sometimes they’re absolutely horrible and on very, very rare occasions they’re enjoyable. There’s an old mechanic that travels with the group whose impotent but still pays at least once a week just to spend an hour cuddling him and petting him and telling him how pretty he is. 

His new masters seem to think that because he can’t talk he must have the mind of an animal. They often talk about him right in front of him like he’s not there and never try to communicate with him, instead opting to lead him around by tugging on his chains. The older one carries a wispy little switch with him that he uses to whip him when he doesn’t move fast enough. He’s always careful, though, not to do it hard enough to leave marks. A big part of his appeal to customers is his skin, which his masters go to great effort to keep soft and pale and unmarked, that’s why he so rarely gets to see the sun. They also don’t feed him much so that he stays frail looking. 

One day that’s significance only occurs to him later on he overhears his masters talking about what an idiot Dynerous is. From what he’s gathered, Dynerous is the leader of the caravan, he decides where they will go, when they will go there, and how long they’ll stay. Apparently, according to his older master, Dynerous’ woman is sick. The doctor who used to travel with the caravan died about a month ago but Dynerous says he’s heard of a small settlement where a doctor can likely be found and he’s eager to get his woman there as quickly as possible. The only problem with that is that getting there quickly (meaning in one week as opposed to one month) requires them to cut through a territory that they usually go around. He doesn’t get to hear exactly why they usually go around it but that night when they pull up stakes to start moving apprehension is tangible in the air. 

The next few days are hell for him. They travel both day and night so he’s never let out of his box save when his younger master takes him out to feed him and let him relieve himself. It’s not so uncomfortable being in the box at night, because desert nights are cold, but during the day he feels like he’s being roasted alive. By the third day the heat is causing him to constantly drift in and out of consciousness. Eventually, to his surprise, his younger master notices how haggard he’s looking (there even seems to be a hint of pity in his eyes) and mentions it to the older one. After that he’s begrudgingly allowed out of the box during the day but they make sure he’s securely chained to the flatbed of their truck and keep him covered with a thin tarp to preserve his skin. At night he’s put back into the box on the older one’s insistence that they shouldn’t let him get used to having more freedom to move around than he usually does. That would just make it hard on him when things went back to normal. 

From the back of the truck, looking out from underneath his tarp, he sees more open space than he has in months. He tries not to think about how his world his going to shrink back down once they reach the edge of the territory and instead just focuses on enjoying the moment. The others seem worried (almost frantically so) but if they’re not going to bother to tell him anything then they don’t have any right to expect him to share in their concern. It has occurred to him that anything that would kill the others would also kill him and he’s surprised at just how little that though bothers him. It’s not that he wants to die, it’s just that he can’t muster any genuine desire to remain alive. 

He’s lying in his box one night, thinking about how he’s heard that they’re only two days from the border with a sinking feeling in his stomach, when there’s what sounds like an explosion from outside. The way the truck shakes and then rumbles to a stop tells him that it must have hit something and gotten damaged. Usually when this happens the entire caravan stops but it doesn’t sound like anyone else is stopping. 

“Come back you cowards!” He hears his older master yell, confirming his suspicion. He hears some clanking from the tire where he’d heard the explosion and then hears his younger master yell something about the axle being broken, sounding on the verge of full fledged panic. There’s some clanking and scraping that he assumes is the sound of them trying to perform makeshift repairs on the axle but then everything goes oddly quiet. The quiet is soon replaced by the rumbling of multiple approaching engines, it sounds like...motorcycles? There are no motorcycles in the caravan. 

The bed of the truck bounces as if under the weight of someone jumping onto it. He hears two gunshots after that (the old man keeps a shotgun under the seat of the truck) then more thudding and scraping. His younger master starts to scream something that sounds like “get off of him” but gets cut off mid sentence. There’s a long silence and then...laughter...unfamiliar laughter. 

“Think he’ll be mad that we only got one?” An unfamiliar voice asks from the far end of the truck bed. 

“Nah.” Another one says from just outside his box and he feels his heart jump. “Still a good haul, went down easy too.” 

“Yeah.” More boisterous laughter. “I’ll ride back and tell ‘em where to find it yeah?” 

“Yeah.” He hears the sound of someone sitting down on top of his box. “Don’t be long.” 

He hears one motor cycle retreat into the distance. The following silence is agonizing but he misses it when he hears the man who stayed behind start to move around. The truck bed groans under his weight as he stands and then there’s the sound of him rummaging through the cargo. All he can do is wait and listen to the footsteps move closer and closer. The rattling of the lock on his box is too close and too loud. 

All he can do is lie in the dark and hold his breath as he listens to the man outside fumble with the lock and then start to search for the key. He hears more rummaging around and then the soft thud of a body hitting the sand and then heavy footsteps returning to just outside the box.When the lid opens the full moon seems bright compared to the dense blackness of the inside of the box. 

“What we got here?” The dark figure looming over him says in an amused tone as he’s hauled out of the box by his hair. He tries to stand up but the other man forces him to his knees and it’s more than a little frightening that he only requires one hand to do that. That big, rough hand remains firmly planted on the back of his neck, keeping him from looking up, as the man examines his general set up. Another hand takes ahold of the chain at his neck and tugs it, noting how it’s attached to a D ring inside the box and the man makes a soft humming noise of comprehension in his throat. 

“They put ya’ in there?” The man asks, finally letting him raise his head. He looks up but stays on his knees and nods. 

“Guess you’ll be thanking me for that then.” The other man points to where the bodies of his...former masters lie in a heap on the ground. He looks over at them and keeps his features carefully blank, it’s not hard since the site of their corpses doesn’t make him feel much of anything. While he’s still looking at the bodies, the other man jumps off the other side of of the flat bed. The other man is out of site so long that he starts to get nervous and crawls over to the side of the flat bed that he had jumped off of. 

“Did I tell you to move?” The slight edge in the other man’s voice sends him scrambling back to where he’d been kneeling. Eventually light from the headlight of the other man’s motorcycle floods the flatbed and he hears the clamoring of the other man climbing back on. He keeps his eyes carefully trained on his own hands as the other man crouches in front of him. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees the other man set down a pair of bolt cutters and feels a little tingling of hope in his chest. 

A big hand cups the back of his skull, tilting his face up so that the other man can examine him. With the aid of the light, he’s able to examine the other man too. His hair is shaved into a mohawk and colored an unnatural shade of red, his jawline is strong and his eyes are a cold, sharp shade of blue. Even if his size weren’t being exaggerated by his bulky armor, he’d still be HUGE. Just then he realizes that he’s making eye contact and quickly looks away. The other man chuckles. 

“How old are you kid?” 

Panic flaring up in his gut at the prospect of his inability to answer being misinterpreted as insolence, he raises his hand slowly (so that it can’t be seen as a threatening gesture), touches his throat and shakes his head. Luckily the other man seems to take his meaning. Again with frightening ease, the other man reaches up and pries his mouth open to examine his teeth. Suddenly the situation is all too familiar, he remembers undergoing a similar examination before his now dead masters bought him. Nex those big rough hands run down his sides, feeling along his rib cage, then they rip away the muslin loincloth that had been his only clothing for the past few months. The other man paws at his genitals, carefully feeling for open sores. He gives his balls a slight squeeze (smirking at the way he jumps) and then finally withdraws his hand. 

For a long time the other man just regards him thoughtfully, as though mulling something over in his head. Then suddenly the other man’s mouth is on his, it’s something between a kiss and a bite. Despite his surprise he manages to keep himself from pulling away and tries to reciprocate, eager to show that he’s willing to comply without being forced. Though he knows well enough that if the other man WANTS to force him it won't matter how compliant he is. The other man seems pleased by his apparent willingness and starts pawing eagerly at his body, savoring the texture of his skin. At the approaching rumble of engines the other man growls in irritation. 

“Stay.” He says firmly as he stands to greet his comrades and at that moment the boy finds himself grateful for the first time in his life that he cannot speak. If he could speak he wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to say ‘like I have a choice’ and point out that he’s still chained up. The other men are exuberant. Apparently more of their “booby traps” have caught other vehicles from the convoy further up the road, among them a truck that was carrying tanks of guzzoline. A little voice in his head points out to him that they’re most likely talking about the old mechanic’s truck and he finds himself hoping that they at least killed the old man quickly. That’s the most though he can spare for him. 

“What’s that?” He hears another member of the gang ask and realizes that it’s in reference to him. 

“Mine’s what it’s is.” The man with the red mohawk says in a tone that leaves no room for questions or challenges. While the others get to work stripping the vehicle, the man with the red mohawk crouches down and uses the bolt cutters to break the D ring. For a second the urge to flee is nearly overwhelming but then he remembers that even if he did manage to outrun all these men on their motorcycles (unlikely) there would still be several days worth of dessert for him to cross alone, on foot...naked before he reached civilization of any kind. Once he reached that civilization they’d likely notice that he had the brand of a pleasure slave on his lower back and then he’d just wind up chained up in another box. Luckily none of what he’s feeling shows on his face (it never does) and he’s able to shove his despair down into the pit of his stomach by the time the man with the red mohawk talks to him again. 

“Cm’on.” Is all he bothers to say before sauntering over to the side of the flat bed and jumping off. The boy appreciates not being lead along like a dog but can’t help but bristle a little at how certain the other man is that he wont run away...even if that certainty is well founded. He gets to the edge of the flatbed and turns to climb down but before he makes it to the ground the man with the red mohawk grabs him around the waist and sets him on his feet. When they get to the motorcycle the other man attaches his chains to the back of it. He understands the reason for this immediately, if he tries to jump off he’ll be dragged behind the bike by his neck. 

Sitting on back of the bike isn’t exactly comfortable, given that he isn’t wearing any clothes, but it’s considerably more comfortable than the offered alternative. As the bike picks up speed, he finds himself involuntarily wrapping his arms around the larger man. It occurs to him that that might anger him, they haven’t exactly discussed the terms of the “arrangement” yet, but fear makes him lock up and he can’t let go. The feeling of the cold night air whipping his body as they speed over the sand dunes is both terrifying and exhilerating. They arrive a large encampment that seems mostly empty at present. He takes this to mean that they’ve caught the rest of the caravan and are out collecting their spoils. 

Once the man with the red mohawk detaches his chain from the back of the bike he begins dragging him along by it. It’s seems to have more to do with hurry than with concern that he won't follow. The whole while the larger man keeps darting glances around the encampment, as though expecting to be ambushed. He leads him over to a small tent and pushes him inside. There’s not much inside, it’s the sort of setup that’s meant to be picked up and moved at a moments notice. 

There is a sleeping matt, though, and he’s shoved down onto it so suddenly it knocks the breath out of him. The other man is on him immediately, without even bothering to take off his armor, grinding against him and plundering his mouth with his tongue. His mouth tastes like copper and he tries not to think about why that might be. Despite being terrified, he also tries to give as good as he’s getting without seeming aggressive. He’s fairly certain that these are the sort of people who'll roast you on a spit and eat you if they don’t believe you're worth something to them alive. 

In what feels to him like a herculean act of bravery, he reaches up and caresses the peach fuzz on the back of the other man's head. He intends it to be soothing but it seems to have the opposite effect. The kiss becomes even more desperate and hungry, broken up by the occasional colliding of teeth. 

“Wez!” A sudden call from from outside has the other man freezing in a way people usually do when their names are unexpectedly called. 

“Shit!” The other man (Wez?) hisses before reluctantly climbing off of him and trudging to the tent’s exit. Before leaving he turns back and, again, instructs him to “stay.” He nods in response and is then left alone in the tent’s dark interior. He hears two men talking outside in urgent tones but can’t make out what they’re saying. Eventually Wez comes back in carry a length of rope in his left hand. He crouches next to the matt. 

“Put your hands together.” He commands and the boy moves quickly to comply because Wez seems irritated and he DOES NOT want that irritation directed at him.Wex ties his wrists together and then moves down the matt to do the same to his ankles. Once he’s bound Wez grabs the chain around his neck and hauls him into a sitting position. 

“Listen,” He says firmly. “If the others get back before I do, you make sure they don't see you, understood?” 

The boy nodds. 

“Good.” Wez shoves him down onto his back. “Rest up, you're gonna’ need your strength for when I get back.” 

With a devilish smirk his new master turned to leave, abandoning him to his anxious anticipation.


End file.
